Norton, Andre - Novel 15 Read Online Free PDF Page A

spoke to the dog. "Where ees Apache'— you fin'!"
                   The dog dropped its toy gun and ran in
widening circles through the crowd—the men edging out to let it through.
Finally it stopped short before a man on the very outskirts of the circle and
began to bark sharply.
                   For one amazed moment Ritchie thought that
Perro had really discovered one of the enemy in their midst, for the man's
black hair was pulled back by a red headband such as the desert warriors
favored, a blanket was draped about his shoulders, and the feet and legs the
dog was now snarling at were covered with the high, bootlike moccasins of the
mesa men.
                   The man stood perfectly still and did not even
appear to notice the dog now working itself into a frenzy of barks and growls.
Diego had approached slowly, but now he took a sudden stride and grabbed at
Perro's collar, jerking back with a force which half strangled the animal.
                   "Your pardon, Senor
Scout." He touched his hand to the brim of his hat, but the mockery
in that gesture was plain.
                  “Perro mistakes the counterfeit for the real. You weel excuse heem, please."
                   "Sure—" The one word came in the
soft drawl of a Mountain Man as the moccasined feet turned and the red-crested
figure drifted off toward the Colonel's quarters.
                   Perro's mistake seemed to put an end to the
show because Diego refused all urging to continue and departed out of the gate.
All but a few die-hards who followed the showman to the road went back to the
warmth of the barracks.
                   "Don't know as that thar pooch was so
wrong in his 'Pache huntin'," one of the men walking just before Ritchie
said.
                   "Oh—you know Velasco—"
                   "Yeah. I've seen
him—hangin' round the fort. But he was raised 'Pache, warn't he? Catch 'em
young 'n raise 'em right 'n they stay 'Pache. He's got him blood brothers out
thar in the hills. How do we know he ain't tellin' 'em things now 'n then?
They're pretty cute—they savvy fightin'. 'N Velasco, he can't remember nothin'
but livin' with 'em. I've heard him say that with his own mouth. His own people
don't like him much. Bet Diego taught the pooch that thar trick jus' to show
him up."
                   "Well, he'd better not show it off where
the Colonel can see him or he won't get in here again. The Colonel swears by
Velasco, and he won't take kindly to anyone making fun of him open that way.
Hey, where's the cards ? All right, your deal,
Sam."
                   Ritchie lingered, wishing that he dared ask
about this Velasco who was raised an Apache. He had heard tales of children
captured young enough to conform to the Indian way of life, and tough enough to
survive it, who had grown up as warriors of the tribe and, when reclaimed by
their own people, had been misfits in the civilized world. But the card players
were deep again in the interrupted games, and he went back to his own small
section of the barracks.
                   But he stopped short before the rack where he
had hung his newly polished equipment. Belt, carbine, sabre—all had
disappeared. And in their places was another set, fouled, tarnished, and
unrubbed. Ritchie let his breath out slowly through his nose. He knew very well
what this meant. Sturgis had stepped in the night before and had stopped the
showdown. But this time he would have to force it himself or else lose face
with the whole company. Even if he took a beating and lost, he could still
cling to the shreds of his self-respect.
                   There were eyes watching him now—he could
almost feel them burning between his shoulder blades. This was it! But, as he
turned abruptly and marched down the room looking carefully at each racked
carbine he passed, he was thinking